


sabotage (the best thing that I have)

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Series: collapse into me (tired with joy ) [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: First Son!Kurt, Injury, M/M, President Burt Hummel, References to Suicide (not contemplated by any of the characters), gunfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>[We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news—]</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Click.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>[—Shots fired outside the benefit at the town hall—]</em></p><p> </p><p>Click.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>[—And we can confirm that President Hummel and his son were among the wounded—]</em></p><p> </p><p>Click.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>[—President Hummel has been shot. I repeat: President Hummel has been shot.]</em></p><p> </p><p>Click.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sabotage (the best thing that I have)

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings in the tags, folks.

_[We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news—]_

Click.

_[—Shots fired outside the benefit at the town hall—]_

Click.

_[—And we can confirm that President Hummel and his son were among the wounded—]_

Click.

_[—President Hummel has been shot. I repeat: President Hummel has been shot.]_

Click.

* * *

 

“This is all your fault.”

Kurt doesn’t move apart from scrolling upwards on his phone screen.

“Finn,” Rachel starts softly, placing a hand on Finn’s shoulder.

Finn throws it off. “No, Rachel, don’t you get it?” he asks, then turns to Kurt. “Look at me,” he says. “ _Look at me_!”

Finn reaches up and knocks the phone from Kurt’s hands, sending it clattering across the floor.

“Finn!” cries Rachel.

“This is all your fault, don’t you get that, Kurt?” Finn demands, towering over Kurt. “Burt got _shot_ because of you! Mike’s dad is _dying_ because of you, Kurt! And you’re just _sat_ here, pretending like nothing ever happened, and it’s all _because of you_ , Kurt, because you couldn’t be normal, because you couldn’t just be like _everybody else_ —”

“Finn!”

“No, he needs to understand, Rachel, because he doesn’t _get it_ —”

“This isn’t helping anybody,” Rachel tells Finn sharply.

Kurt looks up at them, suddenly so involved in shouting at each other, then stands. He walks across the waiting room’s floor and picks up his phone. He sits down, and starts scrolling again.

* * *

 

**One Day Earlier**

“End of your first week, Ohio,” Jeff announces to Kurt over dinner on Friday. “How does it feel to be a Dalton boy?”

Kurt rolls his eyes as he stabs his mashed potato. “You are aware that I haven’t lived in Ohio since I was eleven, right?” he asks.

“Ah, but it is our childhoods that shape our futures, Ohio,” Jeff says, affecting an air of wisdom.

Kurt just rolls his eyes again. “It’s a shame that Nick and the others are on late dinner,” he says. “They’re the only people I’ve met able to keep you in line.”

“If you think _I’m_ the member of our friendship group that needs ‘keeping in line’, then you’ve got another thing coming, Ohio,” Jeff replies easily. “Speaking of trouble – how’s the roommate?”

“Ethan’s probably got a cleaner disciplinary record than any of the people present at this table,” Kurt points out. “Including Agent Chang,” he adds, nodding at the secret service agent, who barely reacts. “And he’s fine. He’s making me camp out in the library until curfew tonight because, and I quote, _there’s something he needs to do alone_.”

“Something?” Jeff asks. “You sure it’s not someone?”

“Could be either,” Kurt shrugs. “We don’t really talk. After he got over the whole _I’ve seen this guy’s face on the news_ thing, he realised how utterly boring I am. We stay out of each other’s way.”

It’s a heavily censored version of the truth, and out of the corner of his eye, Kurt can see Agent Chang’s lips ticking upwards in a small smirk. If Kurt didn’t know better, he’d think that Agent Chang had taken pleasure out of pinning Ethan to the wall after he came at Kurt in a way – although perfectly innocent in nature – that could have been easily misconstrued as hostile. The long and short of it is that Ethan now has a growing chip off his shoulder – both figurative and literal.

“So you’re in for what?” Jeff puts forward. “An evening of squinting at Shakespeare while he does the horizontal tango with some girl you’ve never met?”

“Pretty much,” Kurt agrees with a shrug. “I’ll get some homework done, maybe talk to my dad’s secretary about the arrangements for tomorrow.”

“You got some stuffy political function to attend?” Jeff asks.

Kurt smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of a kind.”

* * *

 

Halfway through his first hour camped out in the library, Kurt abandons any and all plans he had to study in favour of playing poker with Agent Chang. He roots through his bag until he finds the packet of gummy bears that Nick bought him at break and up-ends it on the table so that they can use them as chips.

“We need to talk about next weekend,” Agent Chang says as Kurt deals another hand.

Kurt scowls. The benefit at the town hall isn’t something Kurt has any desire whatsoever to attend and he’s normally handed a free pass from these gatherings on account of his age and school career. Rita Warren – his dad’s press secretary, who Kurt liked to fondly refer to as Satan in Heels – however, had other ideas, and had pulled Kurt aside just over three weeks ago to lay down the law with regards to his attendance.

If it’s any consolation, she had said, Finn will be going too.

It’s really not.

Kurt pushes two yellow gummy bears into the pot. “Do we have to?” he asks.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Agent Chang says dryly. “Do you remember the security protocol for these events?”

Kurt sighs. “Dad’s agents get out of the car, dad gets out of car,” Kurt recites blandly, “Carole gets out of car, you get out of car, I get out of car, Finn gets out of car. I remember.”

“And if anything goes wrong?” Agent Chang prompts.

“I stop, drop, and roll,” Kurt says. At Agent Chang’s challenging eyebrow raise, he relents. “I drop to the ground and let you cover me.”

Seemingly satisfied with Kurt’s answer, Agent Chang nods and pushes three gummy bears into the central pile. “Raise.”

Kurt eyes his hand critically – four tens and a jack – before sliding another gummy bear into the pot. “Are we expecting something to happen?” he asks.

Agent Chang shrugs. “There’s always a chance,” he says, and even to Kurt’s inexperienced ears, it sounds like avoidance.

“Yeah,” Kurt pushes, “but there have been threats, haven’t there, because of the scandal—”

“It wasn’t a scandal, Kurt,” comes a voice, and that’s—not Agent Chang.

Kurt swivels his body in his chair to see Blaine stood behind him, back leant against one of the stacks, blazer long since lost and shirt only loosely buttoned. He’s holding a hefty copy of _Biology of Cells_ in his arms and his hair has that distressed look it gets after he’s been studying for too long; Blaine has a habit of fisting his hair in frustration.

“The mysterious lack of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq was a scandal,” Blaine goes on calmly. “Watergate was a scandal. The President’s son liking cock? Not so much. Don’t demean who you are by calling your sexuality a scandal.”

“Blaine,” Kurt greets. “What are you doing here?”

Blaine raises his textbook. “Studying,” he answers shortly. “In contrast to you. You are aware that Dalton has a section in the Honour Code dedicated to gambling, right?” he asks.

Kurt shrugs. “I don’t think gummy bear five card draw in the library at nine o’clock at night is really what they’re concerned about,” he says. “You’re not normally such a dedicated student, though. I always thought you were a fan of the last-minute essay.”

“It’s called scheduling, Workaholic,” Blaine retorts, settling himself down in one of the seats opposite Kurt. “I have to attend this dumb ball with my father tomorrow, so I have to get as much homework out of the way as possible.”

“Which ball?” Kurt asks.

Blaine makes a face. “Some charity benefit thing that’s apparently _the shit_. Lots of hotshot politicians, lots of ass-kissing, and not nearly enough alcohol.”

“The Children’s Education Fund benefit?” Kurt asks.

Blaine frowns. “How’d you know that?” he asks.

Kurt gestures at himself. “Fellow invitee,” he says. “Rita – she’s the White House Press Secretary – has been making her P.A. send me texts about the importance of re-establishing a positive public presence. I didn’t know you were going, though. Might have made me a little less inclined to go to bed with wet hair in the hopes of getting ill.”

“Unfortunately, my father’s job tends to come with a three line whip on attendance to these things,” Blaine sighs.

“What does your father do?”

“Drink a lot of tea,” Blaine answers. At Kurt’s confused look, he sighs. “He’s the British Ambassador to America.”

Kurt gives Blaine a doubting look. “You’re British,” he says slowly. “You don’t even have an accent.”

Blaine quirks an eyebrows. “Who says I don’t have a British accent?” he asks, voice dropping into a perfect Downton Abbey lilt. Switching back to an American accent – his normal accent, Kurt would add – Blaine goes on, “It was too noticeable, so I worked on dropping it. I still fuck up sometimes – on the ‘o’ sounds especially.”

Kurt just stares.

“Stop looking at me like I just told you I’m a closet Hannah Montana fan,” Blaine says. “It’s just across the Atlantic Ocean, Kurt. I haven’t even lived there since I was fifteen.”

Kurt continues to stare.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Blaine goes on, looking to Agent Chang for support, but the secret service agent has his _not paid enough to get involved in this shit_ face on.

“It’s like I don’t even know you,” Kurt eventually says, tone gently teasing, but he can’t help but come back to Jeff’s comment earlier that day.

_It is our childhoods that shape our futures._

* * *

 

Kurt doesn’t really like the White House. Between the secret service agents, the staff and his family, Kurt finds it hard to ever feel like he’s alone. When his dad was first elected, Kurt spent three hours just locked in his bathroom, trying to seek some form of solitude away from the craziness of it all.

Try as he might, Kurt can’t ever seem to be able to get this building to stop feeling like a hotel and start feeling like a home. Sometimes, Kurt finds himself missing their home back in Ohio, missing the grand piano where his mother taught him how to play, missing the sound-proofed music room where he taught himself how to sing after her death, missing – so, so strangely, and Kurt cannot comprehend _why_ – the people.

Kurt never thought he’d miss anything about Ohio.

It’s funny, really, what his father’s lifestyle has done to him.

* * *

 

“You look nice, Kurt,” Carole greets Kurt as he enters the lounge in the residential wing of the White House. “Is that Marc Jacobs?”

“Vivienne Westwood,” Kurt corrects without feeling. He settles down on one of the couches, very determinedly not meeting Carole’s eye. In the corner of the room, Kurt can see Finn and Rachel, wrapped up in haute couture and each other, and is thankful that they haven’t given him more than a precursory glance.

It’s a guilty thanks, really, but it’s thanks nonetheless.

There’s an easily detectable shift in the atmosphere the moment Burt enters the room, flanked by a gowned Rita Warren. He looks almost regal in his closely tailored suit and bowtie, still talking something over with Rita in hurried undertones.

“So,” Burt says, finally turning to his family. “We ready to go?”

 _Hi Dad,_ Kurt wants to say. Instead, he nods. “Sure.”

Burt places a firm hand down on Kurt’s shoulder. “Son,” he says. “Looking sharp.”

Kurt smiles up at him. “I always do.”

“Rachel, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Right, shall we leave?”

* * *

 

“So,” Rachel starts, meeting Kurt’s eyes for the first time that night. She smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress and shifts in the leather seat of the car. “How’s your new school, Kurt? Dalton, was it?”

“It’s fine,” Kurt answers shortly. He casts his gaze to the passing scenery as it blurs through the tinted window.

“I heard it’s an all-boys school,” Rachel goes on. “That must be … an adjustment.”

Finn snorts lightly. “Gay heaven, right, Kurt?”

Kurt’s eyes snap away from the window. “Yeah,” he says. “No one is trying to kill me because of my sexuality. It’s _swell_.”

“Hey, none of that tonight, kids,” Burt cuts in. “Leave your arguments at the door – tonight is about having a good time and raising some money so that kids less fortunate than yourselves can go to school.”

“Yes, Burt,” Finn says.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” Rachel says.

Kurt says nothing.

Agent Chang catches his eye, and makes a face like he’s trying to tell Kurt something with his eyes. Kurt doesn’t know what it is.

The car slows down as they draw closer to their destination that night, and once more Agent Chang catches Kurt’s eye. Kurt looks right back. _I remember._

First, Burt’s security detail gets out. Burt climbs out next, pausing to help Carole out of the car so that she doesn’t trip in her heels. One last look from Agent Chang, and he gets out.

Then, Kurt.

Then, the shots.

* * *

 

Bang. Screams.

Bang.

“Get down!”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Six shots. Six bullets.

Kurt can feel himself shaking as the sounds of the attack still rattle around in his head. Logically, he knows that this is stupid. He’s _safe_ now, perched on a freezing hospital bed, surrounded by more secret service agents than Kurt knew existed. There’s a doctor to his side, stitching up the gash on his arm where a bullet grazed him, and in the forefront of his head, all Kurt can think is that he shouldn’t feel like this.

He keeps catching himself shaking – shivering, he tells himself, but that’s not really true – and has to tense his muscles to stop it. It’s shock, maybe, or just the fact that he can’t resolve the events in his mind to the point where he realises his dad has been shot.

Carole comes in about then, flanked by another legion of agents, smiling softly at Kurt. “Hey, sweetie,” she says. “How’re you holding up?”

Kurt wants to shrug, but he feels that might be unhelpful to the guy currently attacking his arm with a needle and thread. “I’m okay,” he says, proud of how even his voice sounds. “How is he?”

“The doctors say he’s going to be fine,” Carole tells Kurt firmly. “The bullet didn’t hit anything vital and they’re taking him into surgery. For now, the most important thing is that we all remain calm.”

“And Agent Chang?” Kurt asks.

Carole looks uncomfortable. “His condition is critical.”

* * *

 

It’s a waiting game.

The hospital has sequestered a private waiting room for Kurt’s family and his dad’s senior staff, and after Kurt’s arm is bandaged up and put in a sling, he’s sent over that way. He tries to ignore the way that Rachel stares at his blood-soaked suit, and bites down on the words, _it’s not my blood._

The atmosphere in the waiting room is almost more than Kurt can take.

He’s not shaking anymore, and has his phone out, scrolling through news sites and social media, watching the story explode over the web. It’s oddly comforting. Maybe that’s morbid. Kurt is too drained to care.

“This is all your fault.”

Finn speaks quietly, like he’s making a small comment on the situation, but Kurt doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t look away from his phone screen.

“Finn,” Kurt hears Rachel say softly, an attempt at a placating gesture.

It doesn’t work.

“No, Rachel, don’t you get it?” Finn’s voice is rising in volume now. “Look at me,” he demands. “ _Look at me_!”

Kurt doesn’t look up. The next thing he knows, one of Finn’s large hands has knocked his phone out of his grip, throwing it across the floor.

“Finn!” cries Rachel.

“This is all your fault, don’t you get that, Kurt?” Finn demands, towering over Kurt. “Burt got _shot_ because of you! Mike’s dad is _dying_ because of you, Kurt! And you’re just _sat_ here, pretending like nothing ever happened, and it’s all _because of you_ , Kurt, because you couldn’t be normal, because you couldn’t just be like _everybody else_ —”

“Finn!”

“No, he needs to understand, Rachel, because he doesn’t _get it_ —”

“This isn’t helping anybody,” Rachel tells Finn sharply.

It’s then that Kurt finally looks up at them, how they’ve just as easily turned away from him to spit fire at each other, and he was wrong. _This,_ this shit, is what’s so stupid about all of this. It’s not about portioning out blame – it can’t be, because Kurt _knows_ where the blame lies – but about finally, somehow, having a target for the anger they all feel.

It’s okay to be angry.

Just—not at each other.

And maybe it’s easier to be angry like this, to turn against the people you love, rather than to focus on a shadow, a faceless gunman, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to work.

Kurt stands, and quietly walks across the room to where his phone is lying on the floor. He picks it up, taking in the newly cracked screen, and sits back down with it.

He starts scrolling again.

“Look, Rachel, can’t you see, he’s just—”

Knock. Knock.

Kurt startles, whirling around to face the door to the waiting room, expecting to see a nurse, or a doctor, but coming face-to-face with a boy in a suit. Suddenly, Kurt is on his feet, face caught between a frown and gasp. “Blaine?”

“Hey,” Blaine greets softly. He closes the door to the waiting room behind him quietly.

Finn and Rachel stop arguing then, both raking their eyes up and down Blaine’s form critically.

He’s still dressed in his finest – suit and bowtie, both neatly pressed – but his hair looks—messy. “I’m a friend of Kurt’s from school,” Blaine says smoothly. “Dalton, that is.”

“How did you get in here?” Rachel asks, eyes narrowing.

“My dad works with his dad,” Blaine explains, gesturing loosely at Kurt. “British Ambassador’s kid.” He shrugs. “Your mom – the First Lady – told me to tell you lot to go home and stuff. She’s going to be here one heck of a lot longer and you all need your sleep – her words, not mine. Finn, she said that you should stay with Rachel and her dads – and I’m guessing Rachel is the lovely lady in the satin dress.” Rachel preens at this. Kurt kind of wants to roll his eyes. “Kurt, you’re with me.”

Kurt frowns. “I’m not sure that’s such a wise idea—”

Blaine shrugs. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I offered, she agreed. She wants you guys away from the hospital. She said she’d call if anything changed.”

Kurt mulls the words over in his head. “Okay,” he eventually agrees, but only because he thinks any longer in the waiting room is going to drive him insane.

* * *

 

If Blaine is put off by the armed escort that follows them to the British Embassy, he doesn’t comment. In fact, they spend the entirety of the relatively short car journey in total silence, only broken by Blaine reading out the occasional text of support from people at Dalton.

Blaine’s dad – an Edward Anderson – is suitably sympathetic when he greets Kurt in the entrance. “Your family is in the prayers and the hearts of the British people,” he tells Kurt softly.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, and bites down on any comments he wants to make about God’s supposed existence.

“We were just going to get Kurt to bed,” Blaine informs his dad. “It’s kind of been a long night.”

It’s then that Edward fixes Kurt with a close look – one which Kurt can’t decode in his tired state – before he sighs. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’m going to be on the phone to people back home for a bit longer, so if you need me, I’ll be in my study.”

Blaine nods at that, and takes Kurt’s hand.

It’s only then, really, that Kurt realises how loud everything feels. It would be effortless to suffocate in this mess, to lose himself to the sound of screams and gunshots and sirens.

Kurt doesn’t want that.

Blaine’s room is—empty, really. Like Kurt’s room at the White House, and Kurt wonders if this isn’t home to Blaine either.

“Here,” Blaine says, pushing a folded pair of flannel pyjamas into Kurt’s hands. “You can get changed in the bathroom, if you want, or _I_ could get changed in the bathroom and you could get changed here—”

Kurt drops the pyjamas and kisses him.

It’s not a made-for-movies kiss by any means. Kurt’s nose bumps against Blaine’s and their teeth clash in the worst sort of way, but it feels … good. Separate. Like this is a moment detached from the rest of the shit Kurt has had to face tonight, like Kurt’s arm doesn’t still ache from the bullet graze, like Kurt’s suit isn’t still covered in blood, like Kurt is _normal_ , and like this is allowed.

All too soon, though, Blaine is breaking the kiss off and gently moving Kurt away from him. “We can’t do this, Kurt,” he murmurs quietly. “I know it seems like a good idea right now, but it’s not.”

The words are said with kindness, Kurt knows, but a kind rejection is still a rejection. It kind of makes Kurt want to tear his hair out of his scalp, and scream, because when, _when_ is he finally going to be someone’s first choice? When is someone going to look at him and see everything they’ve ever wanted from a son, a boyfriend, a brother, a friend, fuck, even a roommate?

When will he be enough?

“Fuck this,” Kurt mutters, and picks up the pyjamas from the floor. He slams the door to the bathroom shut behind him.

* * *

 

“We need to talk,” is how Blaine starts the conversation when Kurt emerges from the bathroom, cleaner and dressed for bed.

“You can’t break up with me if we’re not dating, Blaine,” Kurt states flatly.

Blaine ignores the comment. “I think somewhere what I’m saying and what you’re hearing got all mixed up and we really need to straighten this out before we fuck anything up too badly,” he goes on.

“Really,” Kurt says.

“Yes, really,” Blaine insists.

“Well, if it’s clarity you want,” Kurt informs him. “Then, the offer I made was for sex, and you turned me down.”

Blaine sighs. “It’s not like that, Kurt,” he says. “I was being honest when I said it would be a bad idea, not just because your dad is currently being treated for a bullet wound to the chest, and you’re kind of fucked up emotionally right now, but because I don’t—” He breaks off. “I don’t do sex.”

Kurt frowns at Blaine. “Did you just give me the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”

“I don’t want you to do something you’ll later regret, Kurt,” Blaine says. “Consent isn’t just about saying yes; it’s about being in the right state of mind to be able to say yes. And I really wasn’t lying about the sex thing.”

“Oh,” Kurt says. “Are you ace?”

Blaine smiles sadly. “Not ace,” he says. “Just—bad experiences.”

“Oh.”

“Sex can fuck you up, and not just in the primary meaning of the word.” Blaine sighs. “What I _do_ do, however, is snuggle.”

Kurt feels a smile working its way onto his lips. “Why do I have trouble believing that?” he asks.

“Was that a challenge, Ohio?” Blaine asks, eyebrows raising.

Kurt shrugs. “What? Are you going to prove me wrong, Limey?”

“Get your ass into my bed, Kurt.”

* * *

 

Burt wakes up sometime around noon the next day, and has recovered enough to see Kurt and Finn by an hour later. He spends the first few minutes of their visit grumbling to Kurt about the fact that he’s not allowed to do any work from his hospital bed – which, Kurt hastens to inform him, is probably for good reason; the last thing America needs is for their President to accidentally declare war while jacked up on morphine – and the next few telling Kurt and Finn that he expects them back in school on Monday.

“I’m going to be fine,” Burt insists.

“You’ve been shot,” Kurt points out.

“Yeah,” Burt agrees. “Me. I was shot. Which means you two have to do what I want. So, back to school. The country can’t grind to a halt just because their President has been shot.”

Kurt doesn’t add that he’s been shot too, and when Finn looks to be on the verge of pointing that out, he stamps on his step-brother’s foot.

* * *

 

They don’t let him see Agent Chang. Kurt does catch sight of Mike, though, in the hospital cafeteria, looking drained and so very, very young.

He doesn’t approach him.

* * *

 

“Kurt,” Finn catches his arm as they start to move away from the hospital. “About what I said yesterday – I was out of line, and—”

Kurt shakes himself out of Finn’s grip. “I don’t care,” he says.

And he walks off.

* * *

 

Being back at Dalton feels strange. In part, Kurt knows it’s due to the physical distance that’s now between him and his dad, but also because at Dalton, nothing seems to have changed.

But everything kind of has.

Kurt has a new security detail, Special Agent Elliott Gilbert, who is nicer, more personable, than Agent Chang. Kurt can’t help but resent him for it.

And—Blaine.

Blaine is still a wild card to Kurt; Kurt can’t even hope to try and predict what Blaine will do on a good day. There are days when Blaine doesn’t leave Kurt’s side, and there are days when Kurt couldn’t find the other boy if he tried.

Kurt tries not to feel like he’s getting whiplash from it all.

Ethan is… Kurt had kind of expected more from Ethan, if he’s honest. What, exactly, he had thought the football player would do, Kurt doesn’t know, but whatever it was, Ethan’s not doing it.

Ethan isn’t really doing much of anything, actually.

Maybe it’s because Ethan sort of reminds Kurt of Finn, but it feels like betrayal.

* * *

 

“Hey, you,” Blaine says as he slides into place next to Kurt in the Junior Common Room. “Been up to much?”

Kurt shrugs. “Reading, mostly, and cursing the fact that I haven’t practised writing with my left hand in a while.”

“Oh, the woes of being ambidextrous,” Blaine comments. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine,” Kurt says dismissively. “A bit achy sometimes, but fine.”

Blaine nods at the TV screen, where the Vice President is speaking to the press. “I kind of miss your dad,” he confides. “President Hummel was always much more … witty, I guess, when dealing with the press.”

“Arrogant, is what the polls called him,” Kurt corrects.

Blaine shrugs. “Nothing wrong with a bit of arrogance.”

Kurt snorts without meaning to. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Blaine just shrugs again. “Like I said, nothing wrong with a bit of arrogance.”

“They’re saying the shooter missed, you know,” someone comments. Kurt doesn’t have to look up to know who it is – Mark Warren. He’s Rita’s son, and his presence at Dalton was one of the reasons that Kurt ended up getting transferred here. “Apparently they never meant to hit the President.”

There’s an undertone there – _they meant to hit you, Kurt._

_This is all your fault._

“I spoke too soon,” Blaine mutters as Kurt tenses.

“Our parents work together, Mark,” Kurt says tightly. “So if you could at least pretend to have some sort of compassion in my presence, that’d be fantastic.”

But Mark merely quirks an eyebrow. “Worked,” he says. “Our parents _worked_ together.”

It’s so obviously an attempt to get a rise out of him, but Kurt doesn’t care. He shakes Blaine’s hand off him. “You know what?” he finds himself asking the room at large. “I don’t have to put up with shit from any of you.”

Kurt strides out of the room, shortly followed by Agent Gilbert.

He doesn’t realise that his feet are taking him back to his dorm room until he’s already halfway there and hears a third pair of footsteps crashing after him.

“Kurt! Kurt! Wait up!”

Blaine.

Kurt doesn’t slow down, until he comes face to face with his dorm room’s door—

_THE CHARITY SHOOTING – ANTI-GAY ATTACK OR TERRORIST PLOT?_

_PRESIDENT HUMMEL SHOT, SON WOUNDED_

_A COUNTRY IN CHAOS?_

It’s a collection of printouts, the most prominent headlines from the past week, all of them accompanied with some picture of Kurt and his father.

In all the pictures, someone has drawn crosses through Kurt’s eyes.

One last printout catches Kurt’s eye.

_GAY TEEN SUICIDES SKYROCKET FOLLOWING CHARITY SHOOTING_

There’s a note written there, scrawled in black marker pen. It makes Kurt’s blood turn cold.

**_Take a hint._ **


End file.
